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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26150830">Scrapbook</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoLau/pseuds/JoLau'>JoLau</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sister Claire (Webcomic)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Allusions to abusive alcoholism through shard contamination, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, First Kiss, Gen, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:00:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,403</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26150830</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoLau/pseuds/JoLau</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Requests and spur-of-the-moment oneshots/drabbles for Sister Claire (and others?!) will be posted here. Updated completely at random.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Claire &amp; Azi, Claire &amp; Rosalie, Claire/Marie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. a taste of fangs</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Marie/Claire, feral!Claire AU, first kiss. Requested by a member of the Flock! Enjoy, Scoobums.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Marie watches her freckled back disappear into the dark. Claire's off to hunt for dinner; dinner for Snowy and Grimm, and Marie and Rosalie too. Beyond the ring of the campfire it's silent, the only giveaway that someone else is nearby being the sunny-warm hum of Claire's aura. That fades too, eventually. Marie sighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's… quiet without Claire here. Which is totally weird because Claire doesn't talk much unless she's prompted to. Claire's default state is one of an observer: her eyes flick quickly to any movement that crosses her line of sight, head tilting or turning in the direction of unidentifiable noises. Claire's ears are human so they don't twitch (but they totally would if they could, </span>
  <em>
    <span>gah</span>
  </em>
  <span>) but her posture straightens </span>
  <em>
    <span>juuust</span>
  </em>
  <span> slightly if she finds the sight or sound interesting. Like when she walks near the chicken coop and hears hens in their hutch, or Catharine's footsteps in the hallway, or the buzz of fluffy little bumblebees in the garden, or-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Rats in the larder." Rosalie interjects verbally, breaking Marie out of her reverie. "Claire gets excited when she hears </span>
  <em>
    <span>rats</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the larder. Or </span>
  <em>
    <span>mice</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the walls. Because she wants to </span>
  <em>
    <span>catch</span>
  </em>
  <span> them."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marie huffs. "Ppphhfftch. You're not still peeved about the time Claire left a half-dead rat on our doormat, are you?" Marie already knows Rosalie </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> still peeved about that. But she senses that this is about more than Claire's "presents". </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rosalie eyes her critically and makes a face that reads </span>
  <em>
    <span>you're a stupidhead. </span>
  </em>
  <span>"Marie. The girl you're severely crushing on eats rats. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Raw rats. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mostly </span>
  <em>
    <span>raw</span>
  </em>
  <span> things. Remember last weekend, when she caught a fish and ate it when it was still all…" Rosalie's lip curls with not-so-subtle disgust, "wriggly and floppy and </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive?</span>
  </em>
  <span>" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marie remembers. She also remembers how the sunlight dappled on Claire's legs and belly, rays of bright light making her skin glow. "Yeah…" she sighs dreamily, thinking about how </span>
  <em>
    <span>cute</span>
  </em>
  <span> Claire looked with her nose scrunched with a proud grin, scales all over her chin and cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rosalie snaps her fingers and Marie jumps. "We're having a conversation, stop being gay." Rosalie puts her hands on her hips. She's standing in front of Marie now, casting a shadow over her twin. "Do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to kiss someone who eats rats, Marie?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're pretty hung up on someone else's dietary choices for someone who ate bugs." Marie snipes airly. There's a bloom of bright embarrassed-indignant red in Rosalie's head. Marie bites her tongue to keep her smugness at bay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We were</span>
  <em>
    <span> twelve </span>
  </em>
  <span>and you</span>
  <em>
    <span> wagered your dessert </span>
  </em>
  <span>that I wouldn't! And it was</span>
  <em>
    <span> one </span>
  </em>
  <span>bug! </span>
  <b>
    <em>One</em>
  </b>
  <span>!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But you would do it again." Marie looks at her nails uninterestedly. "Bug-muncher."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ugh, I cannot stand you sometimes." Groans Rosalie. "Stop avoiding the topic, Marie. I'm trying to look out for you." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At Rosalie's sullen tone, Marie looks up at her beseeching sister. Her usually frowny features are softened by a wrinkle of concern between her eyebrows, lips downturned. If Marie was just a little meaner she would tease Rosalie for it- but she isn't mean. Marie smiles gently at her sister and meets her eye. "I know what I want." Replies Marie with certainty, certainty that's bolstered by a glance of Claire's aura in the undergrowth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that's that. Rosalie is usually persistent, but she relents easily this time. Maybe because she realized it's not totally her business who Marie wants to date; or more likely, she saw into Marie's head when Marie answered her question and felt her entirety hum at the brush of Claire's presence nearby. Rosalie gets the campfire ready for cooking. Marie checks the rope holding the tarp over their bedrolls in an a-frame. Then she settles next to Rosalie who's peeling potatoes. Their camping-sized soup pot sits on a flat stone by the fire, onions and carrots already sizzling in lard. It smells good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire steps into the circle of light the fire is emitting, Snowy squeaking at her heels. Dangling from her right hand is the long, limp body of a rabbit. Beside that, a squirrel. Grimm emerges from Rosalie's bedding and hurries to Claire; the squirrel is given to Grimm and they run off with it, Snowy streaking after them. Claire watches them go. Then she approaches the twins with her fluffy bounty, smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's red on her teeth, specks of drying blood on her hands. The rabbit presented to Rosalie and Marie isn't bloodied- it was killed by having its neck broken. So that means…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I already had mine," Claire tells them. "You don't like seeing me eat." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rosalie makes a face- it's thankful and uncomfortable both. "Uh, thanks. I'll just… go clean this, then. Don't let that stuff burn, okay, we're out of onion." Then Rosalie's gone, taking a kettle to fill with water as well as the rabbit and a knife. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marie pats the spot next to her on the log she and Rosalie shared. Claire plonks down next to her, giving a little shake of her hair, and lifts a hand to her mouth. She begins cleaning her fingers and palm with her tongue and teeth. It's weirdly hypnotic to watch: Claire uses the edge of her lower incisors to drudge blood from under her clawlike nails, licking it away with a quick flick of her tongue. She does this over and over to each of her fingers, using the tip of her tongue to lap away the blood caught in the seams of her skin and cuticles. Then her nose twitches. Beastly blue eyes catch Marie's, wide and wondering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Your things are starting to burn." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marie flinches back into reality. "Whoopsie!" It's her first instinct to move the pot away from the heat after she stirs its contents. Caught off guard and flustered, Marie reaches for the </span>
  <em>
    <span>metal</span>
  </em>
  <span> handle of the soup pot. She recoils as soon as it touches her palm and hisses, "fuckity shit </span>
  <em>
    <span>ow</span>
  </em>
  <span> that stings." With her fantastical reflexes, she saves the pot from spilling with the toe of her boot. Claire, who had the brain to get a cloth to protect her hand, moves the pot to a cooler spot around the fire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you okay?" Claire turns to her immediately. Marie's hurt hand stops flapping in the air because oh, Claire's taking her by the wrist and drawing it closer, palm up, inspecting it in the firelight. If Claire were totally human she'd have to squint or get a lamp. Claire isn't totally human, though, so she sees things just fine in low light. The pad of her little thumb carefully follows the swollen skin of Marie's burn. "I don't think it will blister… pass me a canteen? This cloth needs to be wet."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marie passes the requested canteen, and Claire soaks the cloth with its remaining contents before she presses it into Marie's palm. "Keep that there for now. Turn it over when it gets warm, okay?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, nurse Claire." Marie replies. Her wit gets her a crooked smile. "I think our first aid kit has some burn cream in it. It's a metal red-and-white box in one of the front pouches of the bags. Grab it?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire goes to get the kit, and Marie adjusts the cloth on her hand. Claire grew up wild. She had no contact with other people, and despite that, she has a decent amount of medical knowledge. Not nearly as much as Marguerite, of course, but enough to be the first responder to an accident. There's a role for that the villagers rotate around in Mercy; would Claire like doing that? She's shy, but she likes to help, and she's keen on meeting others-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Where's the burn cream?" And she's in front of Marie again, straddling the log rather than sitting. The first aid box is in the way of Marie's curious eyes when she looks down- </span>
  <em>
    <span>which is fine because she was definitely looking in there instead of anywhere else ha ha ha.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Uh," Marie has to squint as she rifles through the kit with one hand. She finds the desired item, a white tube with a twist-on cap. "Right here! And the bandages are here. And the gauze is riiiight there." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Were it anyone else, they would have probably interrupted Marie, but Claire doesn't. Claire smiles and takes out the necessary items, putting them on top of the first-aid box, which gets put between her legs. Claire uncaps the tube of burn cream and recollects Marie's wrist. "How does it feel?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, it's definitely burnt," Marie replies and removes the cool compress, "but it's more like… tickly-stingy instead of hot-stingy as of now. So I'd say that's an improvement." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It is," Claire agrees. She blows gently on Marie's burn to dry away the damp. Marie feels the nerve endings in her fingertips buzz at the sensation, Claire's small hand holding the back of hers, Marie's knuckles in her palm. It feels nice. Really nice. Claire's hands are rough and callused like Olga's and Rosie's and Oscar's, but they're gentle and kind like Catharine's and Jackson's, even Marguerite's. Claire smudges a thick dab of ointment all over Marie's burn, replacing the cap on the tube and picking up a triangular portion of bandage. The bandage covers her palm up to the beginning of her thumb. "Hold this, please." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yep, I'm all over it." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you." Claire wraps the gauze around and around her hand, asking Marie if it's too tight twice before she ties it off on top of Marie's hand. Claire holds Marie's hand with both of hers, looking down at the spongy off-white gauze, smoothing her thumbs over its texture. Marie lets her hand get turned palm-up. Lets Claire lean her face closer to it. Lets her mouth full of sharp, flesh-rending teeth press into Marie's bandaged palm, the tip of her nose in contact with Marie's pulse. Marie's </span>
  <em>
    <span>very fast</span>
  </em>
  <span> pulse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire looks up at her face and Marie knows she can hear it- her pulse, her jackrabbit-kick heartbeat- and her cheeks and ears grow hot. Claire's still looking at her face as she comes nearer, the first-aid kit along for the ride, her knees nudging against the insides of Marie's own. Claire's eyes settle on Marie's. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire's a predator by all means; she has sharp teeth and keen senses, claws sharp and hard enough to scratch granite. But looking at her now; looking down at her as Claire stretches up and Marie leans down, </span>
  <em>
    <span>God she's so small</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Marie isn't scared by her claws or her teeth or her wild eyes. Marie doesn't see the instinctual urge to hunt and eat the possessor of the thundering heart. Marie sees </span>
  <em>
    <span>something else</span>
  </em>
  <span>, glinting like a precious stone at the bottom of a deep river, and despite the turbulent current Marie wants to dive in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Marie dives. Slowly, tenderly, she dives, and meets Claire halfway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire's lips are twitching between firm and slack, as though she doesn't know quite what to do with them. Marie draws away, softly asking, "was that okay?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I-I think so," whispers Claire, eyes bright. "I h-haven't ever… ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>k-kissed</span>
  </em>
  <span> someone before." Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips. "Can I- can we do it again?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marie's heart feels like it's going to burst, or her head is gonna explode, or- "yeah, we can." It's a miracle that her voice doesn't crack. It's a miracle Marie hasn't passed out with how all the blood in her body has gone north. Claire holds Marie's hand against her chest, fingertips over her pulse, and reaches up for Marie again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when Rosalie comes back, complaining about Grimm's thievery of a rabbit leg, she pauses for only a moment when she sees Claire practically in Marie's lap and cozied up in Marie's jacket. Then she goes back to complaining about Grimm, asks Marie about her hand, and finishes cooking rabbit soup for dinner.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. wounds, reopened</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Warnings for this chapter include: references to past abuse, self-blame (a lot of it), a victim of abuse contemplating whether or not their abuse "counts" as abuse.</p><p>Three instances in which Claire thinks about her life before leaving Mercy, all of them having to do with the emotional, verbal, and physical abuse she endured under Marguerite.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey, wanna see a neat trick *projects my own struggle in coming to terms with past abuse onto Claire*</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Marguerite is <em> different </em> now. Claire wants to believe that. Wants to know who Marguerite <em> really </em> is.</p><p>But she doesn't want to be hurt by her ever again. </p><p>Claire often gets lost in her own head. About things current and past; sometimes her memories, sometimes someone else's. Claire asks herself: did Marguerite really mean all the things she said? Is there any real threat now that Marguerite is better? <em> Maybe </em> , Claire thinks, <em> I'm overreacting. Marguerite wouldn't hurt me now, and she said she was sorry, and she wasn't herself when she did and said all of those things.  </em></p><p>Did it really count if Marguerite wasn't herself when she called Claire a <em> parasite, </em> a <em> nuisance </em> , and <em> ungrateful </em>? Did it count when she threatened Claire with her looming stature and her needles and sharp medical instruments, when she used her status as a senior member of Mercy's abbey to shirk the consequences of her actions? </p><p>Logically, yes. Of course it counts. However… </p><p>It feels like… maybe… it <em> doesn't </em> count? Because Marguerite wasn't Marguerite, right? It was like- like she was intoxicated. Her actions were caused by that energia blockage, not by actually <em> wanting </em>to make Claire hurt. Right? </p><p>Claire's chest hurts. Her head hurts. Her <em> heart </em> hurts. She feels shame, because is it fair for her to judge Marguerite by the deeds she committed to when she was in such <em> pain </em> that she was lashing out? She feels angry because how can anyone- especially <em> herself- </em> expect her to treat Marguerite like someone trustworthy when for all Claire knows, Marguerite is just waiting for a moment when they're alone together to cut her open all over again, word by word? </p><p>Claire watches Marguerite now; the older woman is sitting at the fire with everyone else, present for after-supper conversations while Claire sequesters herself away to the edge of their warded perimeter to- well, do what she's doing now. Ruminate. </p><p>She's alone. Again. Isolated from her friends and family <em> again </em> because- <em> because- </em> </p><p>Because Marguerite is over there and Claire's <em> afraid </em> of her. </p><p>Claire feels her throat tighten up, her eyes become itchy and hot. Despite the miracle transformation Marguerite experienced Claire's <em>scared</em>; scared in a way she hasn't been for nigh on a year. It's like she's nine, or fifteen, or eighteen or any of the years between those again, and all that's keeping Marguerite from inflicting malice upon her is the fact that she's out of the line of sight. It's a hopeless sort, that fear, a stopwatch ticking down on Claire's moment of respite. </p><p>Eventually, she'll be back within Marguerite's range. </p><p>Now that Claire knows what it's like to live free from that abuse, how can she be expected to act normal with the risk of it hanging over her head again? Why does everyone act like nothing ever even <em> happened? </em></p><p>Claire wishes that part of her life never followed her. </p><p>-</p><p>Claire's not clumsy anymore now her magick has been allowed to flourish. A relief that is, really; it means she doesn't trip and get hurt as often as she used to, so she doesn't have to hide injuries lest someone find her and send her to Marguerite. But there are still accidents- a stone underfoot rolls as she steps on it. She falls and lands awkwardly on her wrist, hissing softly as the bones and sinew in the joint twinge painfully.</p><p>Azi hurriedly trots up to her on four paws, nudging Claire's cheek with a wet nose. "Hey, you okay? That was a nasty spill." Hot breath whuffs across her face, smelling faintly of Azi's toothpaste. Claire rises with a grimace to inspect the damage, delicately checking her wrist's range of motion. </p><p>"This is gonna bruise." Claire sighs and cradles her hurt limb to her chest. Azi sniffs at it, concern making her ears tilt backward.</p><p>"You should show it to Marguerite. She'll fix you up."</p><p>Claire's stomach curdles. An unnatural chill shoots up her spine and her scalp prickles with it, pins and needles of cold dread. Her tongue feels fat in her mouth. "I c-can handle it. I k-know whuh-what to d-do with a s-spruh-sp-" Claire stands up fast, becoming lightheaded with it. "I c-can d-deal with it." She gives Azi a quick smile that's tight at the corners and hurries back to camp, curious paws trotting behind her. </p><p>Azi shifts out of her fur while Claire goes about treating herself. A kerchief folded, soaked with frigid water as a compress for the swelling. Claire rifles through her things for a long strip of cloth and Azi helpfully keeps the compress against her injury. </p><p>"Are you sure you don't want Marguerite to look at this?" Azi prods, glancing down at the reddening skin. "She probably has a cream or something that'll reduce the swelling really fast." </p><p>Claire knows that Marguerite does. It's been used on her many times to hide finger-shaped bruises on Claire's arms; at least until Claire began wearing long sleeves. "It's okay." Claire replies softly, giving Azi another smile, this one not so terse. "I don't want to bother her." </p><p>"She's a healer, it's her job to be bothered when someone gets hurt." Azi retorts, brows screwed up with confusion. She moves the cold-damp cloth away from Claire's wrist at her request, watches as Claire begins wrapping up her injury starting at the thumb. Even with one hand, she does a fine job of it. Azi hesitates before asking one more time, "you're sure you don't want me to go get her?" </p><p>Claire tucks the tail of the bandage into one of the deeper coils and makes sure it's snug. "Completely sure. B-but thanks for asking," Claire touches Azi's knuckles with her fingertips, "instead of going to get her right away. I'm pretty good at taking care of myself." </p><p>Maybe Azi's ears can hear things unsaid, because she looks at Claire meaningfully, the gears turning behind her hazel eyes. Her dark hand folds over the one that'd been brushing her knuckles, palm and fingers surprisingly soft and lacking calluses. "When you get hurt, I'll <em> ask </em> if you want Marguerite's help first," Azi tells her; then her lip quirks up at the corner of her mouth, flashing an impish fang, "unless you're bleeding out. Then it's kind of a necessary evil, huh?"</p><p>Claire's skin crawls, but she can hear good intentions when they're spoken to her. "I don't think she's-" she cuts herself off, because Azi's young and Azi knows Marguerite to be kind and a bit surly, not venomous and cruel, and Claire doesn't want to ruin the good image Azi has of Marguerite. So she settles with, "mhmm," and a humoured grin that doesn't completely reach her eyes, but she tries for Azi's sake. </p><p>-</p><p>When she's alone, there's no distraction from falling into her own thoughts. Sometimes Claire falls in so deep that not even Snowy's squeaky yowling can drag her up again, and then she's stuck in a mire of angst that can last hours or even an entire day. </p><p>It's happening right now, in fact. Cog rolled his ankle while the group was climbing a steep incline. Azi carried him the rest of the way up as a half-wolf, huge and imposing and very fluffy. They stopped for the night so Cog could rest, intermittently soaking his injury in a cold creek. Now he sleeps with that foot elevated on the lump of his backpack, tired of the book that was occupying his attention, supper just an hour or two away. Occasionally, Claire  sees him in her periphery. Her eyes hone in on his sprained ankle. </p><p>
  <em> Look what you've done now.  </em>
</p><p>Oscar looks her way as Claire excuses herself quietly, voice clipped at the edges. She hopes Oscar doesn't mind stirring the stew on her own for a while. Hooks of guilt snag in her chest, and her brisk walk becomes a near-jog as the endless staircase of a mental spiral pulls her down. </p><p>Claire's quite good at being quiet, even during a meltdown. She sits heavily against the trunk of a tree, cages her knees with her arms, glaring listlessly ahead while the intrusive thoughts begin in earnest. </p><p>
  <em> This didn't have to happen. Cog didn't have to get hurt- no one had to get hurt. But it happened because of me. Going to Bright Night was my idea. My plan. Cog's hurt because of me. This- </em>
</p><p>Months, nearly a year, of hardship and emotional anguish replay in slow motion in her head. Cruel and spindly fingers pluck selectively at the memories. </p><p>
  <em> -is all my fault.  </em>
</p><p>Cog's ankle. Rosalie and Oscar's fight. Rosalie getting eaten alive, Marie witnessing it happen. Olga's legs getting poisoned; the Helsings descending on Lupo and Azi's pack; Catharine taking Marguerite's pain into herself- the trial, the possession, the baby-</p><p>None of it would have happened if Claire didn't want to feel special. If she just hadn't prayed for a higher purpose. If she hadn't been so</p><p>
  <em> ungrateful parasite she'll leave you just like your real mother did </em>
</p><p>selfish. </p><p>There's nothing violent or shocking about breakdowns for Claire. She holds herself and trembles silently, lips pressed together hard enough to make her face ache. Calling attention to herself isn't an option- everyone has their own problems to deal with and they don't need Claire's on top of that. Besides, when they ask what's wrong, what is she supposed to say? <em> "Everything that's happened is my fault" </em>? What will that gain her? Besides weird looks and reassuring words that don't do anything except soothe the wound for a short time? Like blood clotting over a scab, all it will take is one careless bump for it to split open and ooze again. And lately, Claire's been getting a lot of "bumps". </p><p>The main source of them shares a camp with her. </p><p>The bumps aren't intentional. Not anymore, anyway. No, now the bumps are resurging memories, phantom words that tickle the tenderest parts of the psyche, precise as the medical edge of a scalpel, well-versed in her mental anatomy. Those words had a part in shaping her, after all. Some of her most vivid dreams involve a gaunt, sallow face looming before her eyes, hissing <em> parasite parasite parasite. </em></p><p>Some time must have passed, because boots are crunching in the undergrowth at the edge of her senses. Claire looks up, eyes stinging in the early twilight, as Rosalie stomps over to her.</p><p>Rosalie offers a half-smile. "Marie wouldn't stop fretting over you." She claims as she sits next to Claire, forearms perched on her knees. Rosalie' posture isn't as correct as it used to be; before she invaded Oscar's mind, a terrible act fuelled by more than a decade's worth of frustration. Rosalie's been sporting shadows in her eyes ever since. Two guilty people, sitting under the same tree. </p><p>Claire doesn't lie, doesn't say "I'm fine". But she does say "sorry" into her knees, because she is. She's sorry she made Marie worry, and sorry that it made Rosalie come looking for her. Claire ruined another day: what a surprise. Her shoulders sag. </p><p>Rosalie regards Claire silently in her peripheral vision- Claire knows this because she can see Rosalie looking with <em> her </em> peripheral vision. Then Rosalie says: "wanna talk about it?" </p><p>Claire does. Wants to talk about, at length, so badly that her mouth aches. But Rosalie is going through <em> so much </em> right now, how could Claire even think of piling more onto her plate? So despite wanting to talk about it, Claire murmurs into her knees. "No, that's okay. Thanks."</p><p>Rosalie turns her head and looks at Claire fully, now. Her eyes are sharp, curious, and tired. If Claire weren't so deep down in her mental pit of self-loathing she might've shied away from the critical glint in Rosalie's eyes. She never did like being the centre of attention. Especially when it was about… Stuff. Stuff Claire kept in a metaphorical chest far away from the front of her mind during the day, <em> especially </em> around other people. Broaching or considering the forbidden content within said metaphorical chest was a big fat <em> no </em> in the presence of others. </p><p>Rosalie gives a dry laugh. "We really were raised to suppress everything, weren't we?" Leaves and dirt rustle as Rosalie stretches her legs out and leans back against the tree's trunk. "Our emotions, our desires, our magick… don't tell me you want to keep pushing everything away. It'll rear its head one day." Jaded, Rosalie grins with one side of her mouth. "It could get pretty ugly when that happens. For yourself. For others." </p><p>Claire looks at Rosalie from the corner of her eye. As sharp as all her angles are, Rosalie seems beseeching. </p><p>Claire trusts Rosalie a lot. They grew up together, back in the abbey, and again when they abandoned it. Rosalie pledged herself to Claire's protection, to be her guardian through the best and the worst of times. And right now, Claire's feeling pretty bad. So… she shares what she can. </p><p>"...I've been getting… thoughts I haven't had for a long time. Not since we left Mercy. I…" Claire crumples into herself further. She's surprised that's possible. "I f-feel like I'm back there. In th-the abbey. Before everything started happening." Before all the lies compounded into one that would change her forever- before blue bubble babies and pregnancy tests and <em> lies and lies and lies </em> . Claire closes her eyes and shudders in an effort to keep herself from rolling down <em> that </em> particular hill. She doesn't think she'll ever get over it, but for now she wants to keep this current line of thought. Unlike that other one, it's actually going somewhere. </p><p>Rosalie's quiet while she stares expectantly at Claire. Claire finally lifts her head to turn and face Rosalie, and gives her a hint. "B-before Marguerite got… unblocked." </p><p>Sharp eyes light up as Rosalie puts the pieces together. "Oh," she says, "shit." The older girl grimaces. Rosalie knew what was happening, back in the abbey. Everyone did- it was a sort of open secret. Claire doesn't know why people just <em> let it happen- </em>that's something else she can't bear to consider right now. "Damn, alright, that explains stuff."</p><p>Claire tries to laugh drily but it comes out like a rushed sigh instead. <em> Yeah, try getting away from the woman who called you scum of the earth for your whole conscious life, just to be reunited after her character completely changes from what you know. </em> Claire doesn't say it out loud, because she's never been the scathing type. For a split second, she considers asking Rosalie to just… <em> look </em>, but that's a bad idea for a grand multitude of reasons. So instead, Claire closes her eyes and leans back against the tree with Rosalie. "I needed to get away. Just for a bit. Sorry for worrying you." </p><p>"Hey, I know what it's like to need space." Rosalie nudges Claire with a gentle elbow. "I'm currently the champion of needing to get away from literally everything. Don't apologize for wanting some room to breathe." </p><p>They fall silent. It's like that for a little while; just to two of them beneath that tree. It's… nice. Really nice. Rosalie's presence offers a unique feeling of security. </p><p>"Hey," Rosalie breaks the silence. "If Marguerite does anything- <em> anything </em> - you can come to me. She might frighten literally everyone else, but I'm not afraid of that old bag. I'll deal with her. Got that?" Rosalie's looking at Claire with a half-smile. It's confident. There's a flash of danger in her cunning eyes- not towards Claire, but perhaps towards anyone who'd <em> hurt </em> Claire. </p><p>Claire feels her chin wobble. The glint in Rosalie's eyes goes from dangerous to panicked as tears well up and spill over onto Claire's cheeks. Rosalie opens her arms; gratefully, Claire sags against her friend with a hiccup. </p><p>"Is this a good cry or a bad cry?" Wonders Rosalie as she hugs Claire. "Did I make you cry? Marie is going to kick my ass."</p><p>Claire sniffles wetly against Rosalie's chest. "I-it's a n-neutral cry. Just, ev-everything a-ah-all at o-once. Buh-but wh-what you s-said w-was definitely a guh-good th-thing. Guh," her cheeks are getting all wet and she's worried about getting snot on Rosalie's coat. "S-suh-sorry." </p><p>"Nah." Rosalie replies simply. She gives Claire a good squeeze. "Don't be." </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. night terrors</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Claire often has bad dreams.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Marie doesn't remember what she's dreaming about when she wakes. Sleep leaves her too quickly, bolting like a startled deer. Within the next second she meets the cause of her disturbed slumber.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thump</span>
  </em>
  <span>. A kick connects weakly with her shin. Then it's an elbow digging into her ribs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marie grunts and blinks sleep out of her eyes but she can't see, because it's whatever hour late in the night and the tent's material is thick enough to smother even the most intense moonlight. She's preparing to lift herself up on her arms when she realizes those arms are occupied, wrapped snug and cuddly around Claire's middle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire doesn't seem keen on the contact: she's writhing. Writhing and moaning and trying to get away from Marie, almost as if she's fighting something in her dreams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her dreams aren't usually kind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh no," Marie murmurs, and moves her arm away from Claire to instead pat her soft, perspiring cheek. "Claire? Claire, wake up. Wake up, sweetheart. It's only a dream. I'm right here. Wake up, Claire..." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes it takes more than this to break Claire away from a night terror. This time there is no need for Marie to reach into Claire's psyche and pull her out and thank God for that; her skin still crawls with the pressing guilt of entering someone's consciousness unbidden. This time, Claire wakes up after some more coaxing, gasping so harshly her throat makes ragged, constricted noise. When she bolts upright in bed, Marie waits a full, agonizing ten seconds before sitting up next to her girlfriend and murmuring quietly to her, crossing an arm across Claire's shoulders and easing them both back down onto the bedding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's no talking. Not yet. Claire breathes heavy and harsh through her mouth as her eyes dart around the dark peak of their tent, one hand gripping the wiry forearm atop her waist to keep herself grounded. Marie says nothing and presses her cheek against Claire's shoulder and waits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claire shudders. Marie feels her voice before she hears it. "I s-saw her. I was- I- o-one minute w-we're luh-looking at each o-other and th-the next, she's tuh-taking my hand and puh-pulling me in and it- it- sh-she-" Claire gulps in a breath. It rattles on the way out. Her fingers shake and tighten on Marie's arm. Her shoulder feels clammy beneath Marie's skin and Marie can smell the sweat coating Claire's neck. "S-she pulled me in and I thought it was just a hug. B-but when I t-tried to p-pull back I w-was stuck. I w-was stuck and sinking into her and then she was squeezing me tighter and she wouldn't let g-go even wh-when I yelled. A-and th-the whole t-time she w-was </span>
  <em>
    <span>smiling</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>squeezing</span>
  </em>
  <span> and I couldn't get away. She was- she was-" Claire chokes. Her voice hitches and she sobs, curling her fingers into her own nightshirt; curling in on herself. "I-I'm a puh-piece of h-her, a-and sh-she wanted t-to be wh-whole again." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Claire cries, she cries quietly. She's all silent tears and tense shoulders, tiny, raspy whimpers smothered by bitten lips. It's private and secret and personal, stuff she learned to keep to herself. It cracks Marie's heart open to hear it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marie swallows a lump in her throat. "What do you need?" She whispers gently, carefully touching Claire's damp cheek. Claire turns over to face Marie and claws at Marie's pyjama top, nose buried in Marie's chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"H-hug," Claire chokes out. "H-h-hold m-me puh-please." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marie does. Marie holds Claire and protects her, dragging the blankets up to make a safe cocoon of their warmth and their smell, unbothered by the sharp tines poking at her jaw. Marie strokes Claire's nightmare-messy hair and puts it all back in place, kissing its fiery crown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, Claire's too tired to cry anymore. The sobbing becomes ragged breathing, becomes deep, raw sighing. One hand goes from the front of Marie's shirt to her back as Claire stretches that arm out, belting it secure over Marie's side, fisting the fabric just as tight as before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marie traces Claire's ear with a thumb. "I'm here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"D-don't leave." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I won't. Promise."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marie holds Claire through the night, and the dawn, all the way to the morning call. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hahahaha all of these are winding up as Claire/Marie, ahahaha oops</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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